


(no) me vuelvas a decir bebé

by rjtonamen



Series: (not) a trilogy [1]
Category: Bad Bunny, Music RPF
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Spanish, Celebrities, Español | Spanish, F/M, Inspired by Music, Music, Musicians, Original Character(s), Original Character-centric, Puerto Rico, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-10-14 05:10:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 15,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17502203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rjtonamen/pseuds/rjtonamen
Summary: He's a famous singer. She's a studio tech in an abusive relationship. When she finally decides to leave, there's only one person she trusts enough to call.Inspired by theSolo de Mimusic video.





	1. Mid-October

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally a hundred-word one-shot based on a dream. so much for that.
> 
> there's a lot of spanish dialogue in here; have google translate ready si no hablas español. that's how most of it was written, anyway.
> 
> this is also my first ao3 work, and my first fanfic since [embarrassing fandom redacted] in middle school. let me know what you think. <3
> 
> [spotify playlist here.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7HSLFDm8NlvHWP3cWMsCaQ)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which the characters are introduced.

They’re sitting in a dark room now, she with the techies in the back, he with _the talent_ in the front. A rough cut of his latest music video is playing. She’s glad it’s dark; no one can see the tears streaming down her face. Wiping them away would just draw attention and aggravate the partially-healed cut on her cheek.

When the lights come up, and he stands to leave the room, he turns back. He sees her. She can’t read the message his eyes are trying to send.

* * *

This isn’t the first time she’s caught him staring. Shouldn’t it be the other way around? When she came into his booth to fix his microphone for the first time, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from her hands. Their tiny movements were like magic to him as she took the mic apart and reassembled it like a seasoned soldier with a rifle. Their eyes met then, too, but she blushed and looked away.

* * *

She doesn’t avoid him, exactly -- that was hard to do. But when he catches her alone one evening when most everyone else had gone home, she still thinks of it as being found. She doesn’t want to talk to him about this. She hasn’t even explained the bruising to her best friend. They’re barely acquaintances, though she feels like she knows him from his Instagram and his interviews. 

To her surprise and relief, he doesn’t even ask. He just says, _si me necesitas, sabes donde encontrarme_ , and sets a scrap of paper down on the chair between them.

She nods. She’s glad he didn’t try to touch her. She doesn’t want to flinch away from him.

* * *

That night, he -- the other he -- asks why she’s home so late. She tries to explain about the power failure, the resulting electronic chaos, but he either doesn’t understand or isn’t listening. He grabs her wrist, layering bruises on bruises from where he’s grabbed her there before. _I don’t like you working with all those men,_ he says.

 _You don’t know them,_ she says back. That’s the wrong answer.

In her head, the song is playing on loop. She sees the actress’s bruised face, the actress’s bloody nose, the actress’s hands flying up to protect herself. She sees her own hands doing nothing.

_Si me necesitas._

The scrap of paper was long gone, but the digits on it are saved in her phone under the name of a female coworker.

_Sabes donde encontrarme._

* * *

She doesn’t leave that night, or the next, or the next.

* * *

His eyes still follow her when they pass each other in the studio. She still doesn’t understand it. He’s the one who’s famous; ha estado con modelo’ y con actrices, but he keeps looking at her.

She wonders if it’s because of the bruises. That’s why most people stare at her. But most people don’t have that look in their eyes when they stare. His eyes, dark and soft, don’t undress her -- they embrace her. 

Finally, one day, he speaks to her. They haven’t said more than a few words to one another since _sabes donde encontrarme,_ but she’s eating lunch one day in a quiet corner when he finds her again. She’s never seen him during their lunch break; she assumed the talent had some secret lounge somewhere.

_¿Puedo sentarme contigo?_

She nods. He sits.

_Tengo una pregunta._

She braces herself. She has no idea what he could possibly need to ask her. The questions she’s heard too many times from too many different people cycle through her head: Are you okay? What happened? Why are you so quiet?

But when he speaks again, he’s asking about work. About the microphones and the speakers and laptops, and how she learned to work her magic on them. She lets out a surprised laugh. She didn’t learn; she just did. Since she was little, she’s been taking things apart and putting them back together.

She says, _That’s like asking how you learned to sing,_ and it’s his turn to laugh.

Her father said taking things apart and putting them back together was a _boy hobby._ He didn’t stop her from doing it, but the looks he gave her were clearly intended to discourage her. The look she’s getting now is anything but discouraging.

Talking to him is easy. His deep laugh rumbles through her belly. She wants to make him laugh again.

* * *

Lunch becomes a ritual, and anytime he needs a tech, he asks for her by name. People stare when they see them together, but he doesn’t care. She does; she tries to hide it.

The engineers and other techies start calling her _la estrella,_ the star, joking that she’s more famous around the studio than he is. She tries to stop it, but the first time she hears _la estrella_ from his lips, it’s like magic. She loves it.

They are, she knows, entirely too comfortable together. If he knew, he would kill her, but she can’t seem to pull herself away. 

* * *

One day, she finally explains the fresh and fading scars on her body. _No tienes que decirme,_ he says, but his eyes are so soft, and she does.

He doesn’t touch her. He only nods and repeats, _si me necesitas, sabes donde encontrarme._ She nods.

They don’t mention it again, though once or twice, she catches him opening his mouth, then thinking better of whatever he was about to say. She never asks him to finish the thought.


	2. Mid-November

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which there is almost a fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer: i don't actually know anything about how recording studios work, and my spanish is terrible, and i've never been to the island on which this story is set. [write what you know?](https://media.giphy.com/media/5ETs34G31iCAg/giphy.gif)

After a month of lunches, a month of coming in early and staying late just to see him -- and taking punishment from the other him for it -- the day arrives. The album’s finished, the videos wrapped.

He’d kept coming in every day, even when the recording was done. She often found him writing at the piano in an unused room, and when she did, he’d stop playing, turn to her, and beam at her with that smile she was starting to… love?

The wrap party, usually held on the album’s release date, is tonight. He’d insisted on a release date of Nochebuena, so they’re celebrating early. These are usually her favorite part of her job; she loves watching her stressed-out coworkers let go a little, and letting go a little herself. But this will be her first party since moving here, the first for which _he_ will be her date. The thought of the two of them in the same room sends a shiver down her spine.

There’s no way to get out of it. She’s silent, gazing out at the sea, as he drives them to the venue.

The music is already loud when they pull up. She recognizes the song, not his, and wonders whether the artist is here. Back home, the studio’s other artists attended as many parties as they could; she has no idea whether it’s the same here.

She hopes her date doesn’t embarrass himself. He’s not used to being around celebrities.

As soon as they walk in, she zeroes in on the only other female tech, standing at the edge of the party with her partner. She doesn’t know them well, but they’ve talked enough, and two women seem safer than any of the men when jealousy has his arm around her waist.

She greets them warmly, and they respond in kind. Her coworker introduces her partner, and she introduces hers. She hopes they can read the look in her eyes and not ask too many questions.

They chat. They drink. He’s more than civil. He flirts with her coworker’s partner in fumbling Spanglish.

Soon, she spots him across the room, bailando con his famous friends, perreando con one of the most beautiful women she’s ever seen. He glances in her direction, and they lock eyes. They both glance at him, the one beside her, but he’s deep in conversation with his new friend. When their eyes meet again, there’s fire in his dark eyes. It scares her, though she knows it’s not for her.

He’s stopped dancing. He takes a step toward them. His partner shoots him a confused look, but he waves her off. He takes another step.

She shakes her head ever-so-slightly, hoping that he will see across the room, but that he won’t notice right beside her. Neither seem to catch it. He takes another step, and another, and suddenly her coworker’s partner’s eyes are wide and he’s right there with them.

The other tech, having seen the pair of them sitting together, takes her partner’s hand and draws her away.

He introduces himself in English. The fire is gone, or at least hidden; the men shake hands. The arm is around her waist again, and it tightens.

She steels herself for what he’ll say next, but he just says, _I hear this party is for you. Congratulations._

 _Not only for me,_ he replies. _Many people worked on the album, including one of the best techs in the business. She’s the real star._

 _No,_ she whispers, hardly realizing she’s said it out loud.

 _Pero sí. I should thank you, seño’. I understand you are the reason why she moved here._ His English is formal, stilted, his smile too tight. She knows what he’s going to say next before he says it. _I’ve heard a lot about you. She must really love you._

She’s frozen, mouth open. What is he thinking? 

Before either of them can respond, his model-gorgeous dance partner approaches and drapes herself over him. _¿Dónde fuiste?_ she asks, trailing a finger down his chest. He starts to brush her away again, but seems to think better of it.

_Estaré ahí. Pídele a J que te compre una bebida, ¿ok?_

She pouts, but wanders off. At least the tension is partially diffused; the grip on her waist has relaxed slightly.

But then. Just as she’s about to wish him a good evening, walk away from the ticking time bomb and refuse to let it explode, the song changes. Though his Spanish is barely passable, the man at her side knows this song. He pulls her close to his side in a gesture of protection -- or ownership.

 _Yo vivo día y noche pensando en ti,_ he sings through the speakers. In front of them, his eyebrows inch upward. His smile is not quite a smirk.

 _Si tu novio te deja sola, dímelo y yo paso a buscarte,_ his friend adds.

 _Let’s go,_ she says, pretending not to hear the music. _I’m not feeling well. Let’s just go._

Others are looking now. Maybe they had been all along; this was his party, after all, and even if it weren’t, people can sense a fight brewing. She looks from one man to the other, but they’re staring each other down.

She knows what he’s thinking, he with his arm around her. He, the other, hasn’t said anything directly. He’s not in control of this playlist, and his words before the song started were, to a casual listener, polite. If he were to start a fight, he would be the aggressor. He’s bigger, probably stronger, but his opponent has the whole room on his side. He has to be weighing the costs of throwing a punch at the star of the show versus the benefits of protecting his property. 

_Let’s go,_ she says again. This time, she tugs gently on his arm. That seems to jerk him out of his trance, and he turns toward the door. She breathes a sigh of relief.

In the split second when he’s outside the building and she’s inside, the song changes again. She glances back, but no one is looking at her. Coincidence, nothing more.

_Tu no metes cabra, sarabambiche._

* * *

The air in the car is heavy. She watches the city fly by through the window. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel. She can’t remember whether he’s had anything to drink. She’s pissed off that he ruined the party, what was supposed to be a fun night for her, but she knows she’s not allowed to be angry. He’s a master at turning her anger back on her.

Finally, he says, _I don’t want you to see him anymore._

_I won’t. That was the album-wrap party. He’s done recording._

He doesn’t respond. A minute passes, and she dares to pull out her phone. _Who are you texting,_ he asks, voice flat. They’ve played this game before.

She says the name of her female coworker. _Just telling her that it was good to see her and that we had to duck out early. Is that okay?_ It comes out more snarky than she means it to, and she braces for impact.

 _Fine_ is all he says.

She phrases her message carefully, praying that its recipient will know who she is. _Buena fiesta. Perdón por tener que dejarnos. ¿Podemos hablar más el lunes?_

The response comes almost immediately. _¿Él lee tus mensajes?_

_Sí._

_OK. Podemos hablar más el lunes._

* * *

When they get home, he leads her into the bedroom. She knows better than to resist.


	3. Late November

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which she leaves -- with help.

She doesn’t tell him, either of them, when she plans to leave. She doesn’t want to call for help if she can avoid it. She packs her bag quietly, hiding it where she knows it will never be found. At least, she’s pretty sure it will never be found.

So when she comes home one night and her clothes are strewn all over the floor, the bag overturned in a chair, her chest seizes. Before she can turn back toward the door, he’s on her, his strong hands wrapped around her arms. She had fallen in love with those hands when they’d met. _Where the fuck do you think you’re going,_ he asks.

She shakes her head. She can’t speak.

_Back to Mommy and Daddy?_

She shakes her head again.

_Running away with one of the boys from work, then._

She shakes her head, but he sees the hesitation that she doesn’t even feel. His face turns red, then white. He releases her arms, and for the briefest of seconds, she thinks she’s free. He’s so calm when he walks over toward the wall.

The _crash_ from his punch rattles her bones. If he had hit her instead of the wall, she would be unconscious or worse, but all she can think is, _That’s going to be expensive to fix._

She wants to reach for her phone. She knows she should call the police -- or at least dial the number that she saved all those weeks ago -- but her hands won’t obey her brain. Instead, she says, _I was worried about another hurricane._

That catches him off-guard. His fists unclench. The knuckles on his left hand are bloody. _What?_

_That’s why I packed the bag, she says, in case another hurricane comes. I didn’t want to tell you because I thought you’d laugh at me._

He does laugh, but when he says, _You’re lucky you’re such a piss-poor liar,_ she tenses again. He continues, _You’re lucky you’re a bad liar, otherwise I’d think you were lying right now._

It takes her a minute to process the construction of the sentence. _I’d think you were…_ Does he believe her? He’s still laughing, muttering _a hurricane_ to himself. He believes her.

He helps her re-pack the bag.

* * *

The next morning, on her way to the studio, the pent-up emotions from last night hit her full-force. She sits down on a curb and lets the tears fall. Her arms hurt where he held her, and her legs still ache. The last thing she’d wanted last night was to sleep with him, in either sense of the phrase, but she knows that things would have been much worse if she’d tried to say no again.

Once she’s cried herself out, reduced to heaving dry-sobs, she looks at herself with her phone’s front camera. Her makeup, minimal to start with, is gone. Her eyes are red-rimmed, her skin splotchy. At least she’d thought to take her glasses off; cleaning saltwater off the lenses was a nightmare.

She wants to call him. Not _him,_ of course, but him -- _sabes donde encontrarme_ \-- but it’s the wrong time. He’s at the studio, where she should be. She’s late. She’ll be _very_ late by the time she gets there.

The house would be empty by now, with both of its occupants gone to work.

Could it be this easy?

She makes a phone call. It’s only the third time she’s called out sick in her life.

She sends a text. _Te necesito,_ she types. _No es urgente._ She sends him her location.

Silencing her phone and sticking it into her back pocket, she goes into the Starbucks across the street. She asks to use their phone, making up a story about a broken-down car and a dead cell battery. They let her, even though they’re busy; she must look appropriately desperate. She calls the house. No answer. Shrugging at the barista, she buys a coffee and goes back to the curb.

A text comes in: _Estaré allí en 10 min._

She thinks about calling him and telling him not to come. She has no idea what he can do for her right now, She’s halfway between her house and the studio. She needs to go back for her bag, but she doesn’t need a ride there. As for the next step -- she has no idea.

Calling him, though. The idea of hearing his low voice in her ear is almost too much.

A car speeds by, and she hears a few notes from one of his songs. A surprised laugh bubbles up in her chest. She’d typed out _No, ahora no,_ but she doesn’t send it.

Five minutes later, she hears her name. He’s standing over her, framed in sunlight. _Playing hooky?_ he asks, and her heart stops.

_No, no, no._

* * *

When he reaches the spot where she said she’d be, there’s no one in sight. He texts her, then calls her. There’s no answer.

Someone snaps a picture of him; he flips them off.

He calls her again.

* * *

She texts him back two days later. She says _lo siento_ and _lo siento_ again. She’s not sure what she’s apologizing for, but it’s all she can do.

_¿Dondé estás?_

She gives him the name of the hospital.

_¿Puedo ir?_

* * *

_¿Que pasó?_

She tells him the same thing she told the nurses: She fell down the stairs. Her voice barely even shakes when she says it.

The nurses didn’t believe her, and neither does he.

_¿Dondé está?_

In prison, she thinks, or wherever people go when they’ve been arrested and they’re waiting to see whether their victim will press charges. Yes, she assures him, of course she’s going to press charges. Even if he promises, again, to change.

But.

_¿Pero? ¡Joder eso! Pero no. No hay más aquí._

But he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know that moments after hitting her, pushing her, choking her, he -- the other he -- realized that he’d gone too far. He was the one who’d called the police. He, this he, didn’t hear the soft _no, no, no,_ feel the gentle brush of hand in hair, see the horror and regret on his face as she faded to black on the floor.

She couldn’t explain all that.

_Todavía es un supercabrón,_ he mutters. She laughs at his signature insult, and he cracks a smile. _Me alegra que estés bien, estrella._

They’d told her she could go home whenever she felt ready, but she doesn’t know where she’d go. She can’t go back to that house, _his_ house, though she has to at least get her bag. Her parents are half an ocean away, and he’d kept her from making many local friends. Finding a women’s shelter would make it feel too real, like she’s a _victim._

She _is_ a victim, she realizes, and a semi-homeless one, at that.

As if reading her mind, he asks, _¿Tienes algún lugar pa quedarte?_

She hasn’t cried since that morning on the curb, but the tears fall now. She wants so badly to say yes, to trust him, but -- she nods before she lets herself finish the thought. It’s been so long since anyone was so kind to her.

Besides, she doesn’t have any other options.

* * *

It’s late by the time they reach his house. It’s smaller than she’d expected, but it’s clean and well-furnished. It’s just after Thanksgiving, but there aren’t any Christmas decorations up. He celebrates with his family on the other side of town, he explains, so he doesn’t bother.

A pain like a knife through her heart hits her so suddenly that she nearly doubles over. He holds out his hand as if to steady her, but he doesn’t touch her. _¿Estás bien?_

This, her staying here, isn’t a long-term solution. She knows that; she intends to find somewhere else as soon as she can, though she doesn’t even have access to her own bank account. She doesn’t want to impose on him any more than necessary. A week, maybe ten days.

Which means she’ll be alone for Christmas.

She doesn’t say any of that aloud, though. She just nods. If she mentions it, she knows he’ll ask her to join his family, and she can’t do that.

He nods, too, and leads her to the guest bedroom. He tells her to make herself at home, to unpack her bag, to explore the house as much as she wants. _Mi casa es tu casa,_ he says, _literalmente._ He smiles, and she can’t help but to smile back.

As he leaves, he adds, _Mi habitación está al la’o. Si me necesitas._ The phrase sounds different in his house, in this bedroom with the big bed just steps away. He hears it immediately and flushes. He starts to say something else, maybe to apologize, but changes his mind.

_Buenas noches,_ she says. _Y gracias. Mil gracias._

_Buenas noches._

She unpacks her bag slowly. She doesn’t want to unpack at all, but she’s just being realistic; her personal rule is that if she’s staying somewhere longer than three days, she unpacks. Even if she finds an affordable apartment immediately, it’ll take longer than that to get her money from their bank account, so she unpacks.

As she does so, she realizes just how little she’s brought. Her “hurricane bag” has barely a week’s worth of clothes in it, and her emergency cash looks like a lot less in this calmer moment than it had when she stole it from his -- the other his -- dresser. The bag is so much smaller than she’d thought.

She doesn’t cry; she swears quietly. It suddenly hits her how much she needs to do, just the practical financial things that she never thought about for living a life.

She’ll need to buy new clothes, for which she’ll need money, for which she’ll need to ask the studio for an advance on her paycheck. She needs to cancel her direct deposit, too, since she doubts she’ll get the bank account back anytime soon. If he gets out of prison, she doesn’t want him to have another cent of her money.

And then there’s that. If he gets out of prison.

But she can’t think of that now. She unpacks what little she has, prepares herself for bed, and settles herself into the unfamiliar room. Though this is the guest bed, it smells like him. The whole house smells like him, like coffee and smoke and the ocean. Above the low hum of house-noise, she can hear his movements in the adjacent room.

Despite the lingering pain in her body, she falls asleep with one thought in her head: _Soy libre. Soy libre. Soy libre._

* * *

When she gets up the next morning, the house is empty. She knows the way you know when someone’s staring at you, with a weight in her chest that isn’t entirely unpleasant. She supposes she should be afraid to be alone, but no one knows she’s here.

She dresses quickly and wanders into the kitchen. He’s left a note for her; he had to run some errands, but he left breakfast and coffee for her. She snorts a half-laugh when she reaches the end of the note -- he’d signed it with his initial and promised to be back _en una hora o dos,_ but she has no idea what time he left.

It’s early still, and she decides to take him up on his offer to explore the house. She doesn’t make it far. The first door she opens is the back door, and ten steps later, she’s on the beach. She understands now why his house smells of the sea.

She doesn’t realize how long she’s been standing there, looking out at the horizon, until she hears footsteps behind her. She tenses, but doesn’t turn. _¿Estrella?_ She relaxes. 

_Queria explorar la casa,_ she says, as if that explains why she’s standing out here on the sand with bare feet. He hums as if he understands. _Aquí es hermoso. Él odia la playa. No sé por qué quería mudarse aquí._

He doesn’t respond, and she regrets bringing it up.

_Fuck him,_ she says in English. _I love the beach._ Then she says, louder, yelling at the sea, _¡Me encanta la playa!_

She expects him to laugh, but he doesn’t. He yells at the sea, too. _¡Me encanta esta isla!_ His voice is strong. She sees why millions of people are in love with that voice.

_Me encanta esta isla,_ she echoes. She wants to keep yelling, roaring at nothing, letting her voice disappear in the wind and waves. _No soy tuya ni de nadie,_ she half-sings, half-screams. _Yo soy solo de mi. Me encanta esta isla, y me encanta la playa. Te boté de mi vida. No me importa lo que pienses. ¡Tu no metes cabra!_

By the time she’s finished, her throat is raw and her voice is hoarse. Tears are streaming down her face, more for catharsis than actual loss. He’s still standing beside her. He reaches out, but doesn’t touch her.

_¿Mejor?_

She nods.

_Entra. Tengo algo pa ti._

Well, not so much algo as alguien. A man, a little older than them both, is sitting on his couch, sorting through a box. He looks vaguely familiar, though she can’t place where she’d seen him before. She eyes him warily.

He introduces them. The older man is a friend of a friend, he explains, but as soon as he says _estilista,_ she starts shaking her head. When he says he thought she might need some new -- she cuts him off with a _no._

_It’s not like that,_ says the stylist. His accent is Spanish, but he speaks to her in English. _It’s not a makeover. Our friend made that very clear to me -- you should know that he thinks you’re very beautiful._ They both blush, but the stylist continues on unbothered. _He explained to me your situation. You don’t have much clothing, ¿verdad?_

She nods, slowly.

_Well, that’s why I’m here._

_I don’t have much money,_ she says. The words come out in nearly a whisper. It strikes her that this man probably heard her screaming, but if he did, he doesn’t seem to care.

_Ah, I see the confusion. I’m not selling you these clothes. I am lending them. You work for the studio, ¿verdad? I think I have seen you there. This is not a benefit offered to everyone, but with your_ \-- his eyes flick to the man standing beside her -- _connections, the producers believed that you could be trusted._

_Trusted?_

_To return them. When you’re back on your feet._ He smiles, and it’s such a genuine, hopeful smile that she can’t help but to offer a weak one in return.

* * *

In the end, she agrees to look at what he has. _Nothing fancy,_ she insists, but even the low end of his stock is nicer than anything she could ever hope to buy on her own. By the time the stylist leaves, the closet in the guest room is filled, and she’s overwhelmed.

_Lo siento,_ he says, closing the door behind his friend. _No sabía que sería tan… Él puede ser intenso._

She laughs. _Ya veo por qué no te gusta trabajar con estilistas._ She perches on one end of the couch, and he settles himself in at the other end. _So. ¿Qué estarías haciendo si no estuviera aquí?_

_¿Que dia de la semana es?_

It’s only then that she realizes she doesn’t know. _Sábado,_ she says, after a quick glance at her phone. She has several missed calls and voicemails from a number she doesn’t know, but she ignores them.

_En ese caso,_ he says, _yo estaría escribiendo. O viendo la tele. O limpiando la casa._ He pauses, and they both glance around the spotless room. _Okay. La escritura no ha ido bien. Pero…_

_¿Pero?_

What he would be doing if she weren’t there, it turns out, is watching wrestling. WWE, Impact, Lucha Underground; he’s not picky. He seems almost embarrassed of the hobby, though she’d known from his social media and a certain famous music video that he was at least aware of the sport. _No es complica’o,_ he says. _No necesito pensarlo._

_No tienes que explicármelo,_ she says, holding up her hands. _Tuve una fiesta de cumpleaños temática Stone Cold cuando tenía cinco años. Mi papá no paró de reírse por dos semanas._

_Estás bromeando._

_¡No! ¡Hay fotos!_

His laugh fills the whole room.

And so their Saturday-afternoon routine begins.


	4. Nochebuena

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which she reassures him.

Twenty minutes to midnight, she’s never seen him so anxious. He’s pacing the living room. His phone is in her hand; she keeps half her attention on its screen and the other half on him. His fans in other time zones have already started tweeting their thoughts on the album, but he refuses to look until their midnight.

His pacing makes her nervous. She wants badly to take his hands in hers and reassure him, but at the same time, the thought of skin-on-skin causes her heart to rise into her throat. She stands suddenly. _Vamos afuera._

He follows her, dazed, out the back door and onto the beach. The cool breeze calms them both. _Es más fácil hablar con el océano que con una persona,_ she says.

They’re silent for a long time. The sea is calm, as if it’s waiting for him to speak.

_Y si lo odian,_ he finally says, more of a statement than a question.

The ocean doesn’t answer, so she does. _Algunas personas probablemente lo van a odiar. Pero los que lo aman lo amarán, y los que te aman lo amarán._ It doesn’t make any sense, but he seems to know what she means. _Y… lo amo._

_No solo estás diciendo eso pa hacerme sentir mejor, ¿verdad?_ He smiles, still not looking at her. She doesn’t think he picked up on her semi-intentional double meaning. She shakes her head. 

He turns to her. His eyes are shining. Though her heart wants him to touch her, her body flinches away when he reaches for her. The hurt in his expression lasts only a second, but she can hardly bear to see it at all. She glances down at the phone she’d nearly forgotten she held.

_Esta arriba,_ she whispers. From the next house over, the first notes of the album’s first song drift over on the wind.

When she looks up, he’s staring out at the dark sea again. _¿Qué están diciendo?_ he asks.

She scrolls through Twitter, careful not to accidentally like or retweet anything as him. As she scrolls, her smile grows.

_¿Qué? ¿Qué están diciendo?_ he repeats, anxious.

_Lo aman,_ she says. _Todo el mundo te ama._

He lets out a deep sigh and runs a hand down his face. _Déjame ver._ She hands him the phone, and moments later, he’s angrily wiping away tears. He says something she doesn’t catch, but she doesn’t think it was meant for her, anyway. She silently curses her traitor body for not letting her embrace him.

_Estoy aquí,_ he yells to the horizon, startling her. _Dios mio, estoy aquí._ Then he adds, more quietly, _Podría morir feliz en este momento._

_Por favor no._ The words slip out before she can stop them. He doesn’t respond, and she’s not sure whether he’s heard.

Then he says _nunca te dejaré_ and she’s not sure if he’s talking to her or the sea.


	5. Navidad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which she is adopted.

He introduces her to his family as _mi amiga,_ and they don’t question him. She’s relieved. Fame aside, if she’d brought him to one of her family’s gatherings, he would have been interrogated mercilessly for at least an hour. It occurs to her that he may have talked to them about her before their arrival, but she decides it doesn’t matter.

His mother exclaims over the cookies she’s brought. They’re her grandfather’s recipe, famous in her hometown, and the only thing she could think to bring as a Christmas gift. His brothers spot the plate, too, and spend the next several minutes trying to sneak a bite behind their mother’s back.

The family is overwhelming. There are only five of them, him included, but they talk loud and fast. Within minutes, she’s lost the thread of conversation.

His father must notice her expression, because he says, _No eres boricua, ¿verdad?_

 _No,_ he answers for her, _americana. Pero su español es mejor que el mio._

They laugh, and she blushes. It’s not true -- her vocabulary is good and her grammar is passable, but her own accent sounds wrong in her ears. _Hago mi mejor esfuerzo,_ she says anyway, which only makes his father laugh harder.

 _No te rías de ella, Papá,_ he chides.

 _Está bien,_ she insists. _No me molesta._

_Me gusta esta. Es más agradable que la anterior._

_¡Papá!_

She raises her eyebrows. She’d met his last girlfriend only once, when she came into the studio to record their only song together. She seemed perfectly nice, though if her public persona is any indication, she isn’t the type to respond _no me molesta_ to someone laughing at her, even if that someone is her boyfriend’s father.

Not that he’s _her_ boyfriend now. Or ever. He’s her friend. Her friend who she sometimes thinks about kissing. Her friend who looks at her with stars in his eyes.

She shakes off the thought. He’s looking at her now, but she ignores him. _Escuché que eres un fanático de la lucha,_ she says to his father, who lights up instantly. If he liked her before, he loves her now, especially when his son informs him of her encyclopedic knowledge of 90s and 00s wrestlers. She demurs, but this brag isn’t entirely false.

Fifteen minutes later, in the middle of a heated debate about the relative merits of Triple H and Shawn Michaels in which he had been unusually silent, his father turns to him. _Puedes ir, m’ijo; tengo una hija ahora._

 _Siempre he querido una hermana,_ his middle brother adds, mouth full of stolen cookies.

He sighs dramatically. _Oh. Supongo que tendré que volver a LA, donde --_

 _¡No!_ his mother cries. _Podemos tener tres hijos y un hija. No vas a volver allí de nuevo._

They all laugh at that, and she laughs with them.

It strikes her that she should call her real family -- her biological family, anyway -- and wish them a merry Christmas. She wonders whether they’d be happy to hear from her; last time she called, her sister hung up on her. They’ve probably already heard the other side of the story, she thinks, and wouldn’t bother to listen to hers. They always liked him -- the other one.

He -- this one -- catches her eye, and she realizes that the banter has moved on without her. He touches his mother’s elbow. _Le voy a mostrar tu jardín, ¿okay?_ he says.

His mother nods, understanding. _Comeremos en media hora,_ she tells him.

She follows him out of the crowded kitchen and into the garden. She takes a deep breath. The garden is beautiful, and she tells him so. It overflows with flowers and fruit and vegetables, a sight that will never stop surprising her in what should be midwinter.

 _Lo siento por ellos,_ he says. _Mi familia puede ser mucho._

She laughs. _Deberías ver la mía. La tuya me adoptó; la mía ya nos tendría casa’o’._ She regrets saying it almost as soon as the words are out of her mouth. They hang in the air for a moment before he cracks a smile.

_Ya estás empezando a hablar como nosotros._

_¿Qué? ¿Qué dije?_

_Casa’o’,_ he repeats. When she shoots him a quizzical look back, he sighs. _En tu español americano es casados. Dijiste casa’o’ como una puertorriqueña._

_Mi profesor de español estaría tan decepciona’o._


	6. Late December

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which she misses him.

_¿Estás segura que estarás bien sola?_

She scoffs. _¿Cuanto tiempo es? ¿Cuatro días?_ He nods. _Estaré bien. Puedo hacerme cargo de mí misma._

_Sé que sé. Pero…_

_Ni siquiera sabe dónde estoy. Estaré bien._

He bites his lip, but drops the subject and continues packing. She’s glad of it. She knows she can’t ask him not to go -- and she _definitely_ can’t go with him -- but she’s nervous about staying alone. It’s been more than a month since she left him, the other him, but she’s read plenty online and she knows she’s not safe yet. If he were to find her, she’d have no --

No. He won’t find her. She doesn’t even know if he’s looking; she hasn’t heard from him in all this time. Even if he did come here, this house has more high-tech security than most government buildings. And it’s only four days. She’s safe.

_Tierra pa estrella,_ he says, and she realizes she’s zoned out.

She forces a smile. _Estoy bien._

* * *

He doesn’t call her on the first night, but he does on the second. _¿Me extrañas?_ he asks, and she laughs to keep from answering with the truth. She does, badly, far worse than she’d expected to. She’d gotten used to his presence in the house, and it feels wrong without him there. She feels like an intruder.

_¿Cómo fue los fotos?_

_Salieron bien. He jura’o guardar el secreto, pero creo que te gustarán. Y la modelo que eligieron pa mí --_

He stops suddenly, and she furrows her brow. _¿Ella estaba bien?_

_Sí,_ he says slowly. _Ella era buena. Siento no haberte llama’o anoche._

She recognizes this tone, though she’s never heard it from his voice. He’s hiding something. She knows it’s none of her business what he does, knows she should just leave it be, but she can’t stop herself from saying, _Lo que pasa en Las Vegas se queda en Las Vegas, ¿verdad?_

_Verdad,_ he says. Then he adds, _Al menos no voy a caballo y vengo a pie, como diría mi padre._

She matches his forced-light tone. _Eso es bueno, al menos. Hablando de tu padre: espero que no vayas a ver el siguiente episodio de GLOW mañana sin mí._

_Yo nunca,_ he laughs.

There’s a pause. She can hear his breathing.

_Te extraño, estrella,_ he says, serious now. _De verdad. Es raro no verte. No sé lo que hice antes de conocerte._

She wants to reply. She wants to tell him that he read her mind. She wants to say something, but she’s busy willing her heart to resume beating. His voice is so soft in her ear, so much gentler than she’s used to. But it’s too soon. The last of her bruises are still fading. It’s too soon. Tears fill her eyes.

_¿Estrella?_

She tries to say _estoy bien,_ but her voice breaks. _Te extraño,_ she says instead.

_Solo dos días más._

Though she’d never admit it later, she falls asleep to his music that night.


	7. New Year's Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which there is a kiss.

He comes home just in time to host the massive New Year’s party that his friends have been looking forward to all year. They’re both busy preparing the house and themselves; they don’t mention the phone conversation, but she can’t stop thinking about it.

As experienced as she is being around celebrities, the party is overwhelming. Everyone here is gorgeous, dressed to the nines; even his brothers and his childhood friends have the proximity-to-fame glow that she’s never felt for herself. She’s wearing the most beautiful dress she’s ever owned, and she still feels… normal.

He keeps looking at her, though.

He’s a good host. He talks to everyone, moving around the room easily, no trace of his usual shyness around strangers and press. He either knows everyone here or pretends he does. Everyone is singing and dancing.

She contents herself with a small group in the corner -- his youngest brother, a music-video model and her girlfriend, and one of his university friends. They laugh as the university friend interrogates the brother about his grades, his love life, his plans for college.

It’s nice. She hadn’t realized how badly she’d missed this effortless socializing, not needing to worry about saying the wrong thing or speaking to the wrong person.

And he keeps looking at her.

As midnight approaches, his circuit around the room tightens. Moments before the midnight bells start, he’s right beside her, handing her a glass of wine. He doesn’t have grapes for good luck, he says, but this is the next best thing.

She smiles. Their fingers brush on the glass.

The party falls silent as the clock begins to chime. Between each chime, each sip, the guests raise their glasses.

On the twelfth bell, she drains her glass. When she looks up again, all the couples in the room are kissing, everyone else hugging their neighbors. She and he are the only ones not touching. Their eyes meet and, slowly, she nods.

_¿Estás seguro?_ he asks, but there’s a spark in his eye.

She half-shrugs. _Por suerte._

Another instant later, his hands are on her hips, hers on his chest. He’s warm, the smell of coffee replaced by that of alcohol, and she realizes in the split second before their lips touch that they’re both, at best, tipsy, and this is not a good --

She’s wrong. It’s good. It’s not the chaste under-the-mistletoe kiss she’d expected; they melt together, and the crowded room fades away behind her. He tastes of wine and salt and weed and something else she can’t quite place. She could drown herself in him.

His hands tighten on her waist as he tries to draw her closer, but the pressure jolts her back to reality and she pulls away.

This is wrong. It’s still too soon. People are staring. Someone has a camera out. When they broke apart, a cheer went up from the whole room. She shakes her head and steps back.

He says her name, but she keeps shaking her head. She turns away from him and flees to the guest bedroom. There’s a couple on the bed, her bed, and she orders them out -- more forcefully than she means to, and more forcefully than she’s heard herself speak before. They leave, adjusting clothing as they go, and she locks the door behind them.

She kicks off her shoes and lands heavily on the bed, still in her glittering dress. She doesn’t cry. She lies there, listening to the sounds of the party that has resumed outside. She knows she shouldn’t have run away; here, alone, she wishes the kiss had lasted all night.

There’s a soft knock on her door. She ignores it.

* * *

She wakes, gasping, not remembering falling asleep. It’s still dark; it’s barely four AM. The dress is tangled around her. In her dream, it was his hands, then his hands, then his again, wrapped around her throat and cutting off her air.

She fights her way out of the dress. Instantly she feels better. She draws in three deep breaths that settle her wild-beating heart. For half a beat, she’s fine, remembering the ease of the early hours of the party, laughing again at one of the model’s jokes.

But then she remembers midnight. The kiss. The weight of his hands on her body, the taste of his lips on her tongue. The sweetness of reality mixes with the terror of the nightmare. She’s still drunk. The tears that wouldn’t fall at midnight flow freely now.

She falls asleep again, and it’s dreamless and deep.


	8. New Year's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which he searches for una novia.

Sunlight is streaming in through her window. Her head weighs a thousand pounds, and her eyes are red and puffy. She doesn’t care. She dresses slowly and makes her way out into the kitchen.

He’s already there, a rapidly cooling cup of coffee in one hand and his phone in the other. He’s wearing his regular wire-rimmed glasses and he hasn’t shaved. As many times as she’s seen him like this now, first thing in the morning, she doesn’t think the sight will ever stop filling her with -- something. Some emotion she can’t, or won’t, name.

But then she sees the look on his face. His brow is furrowed, and he’s biting his lip. He hasn’t even realized that she’s there.

All the things she’d planned to say fly out of her head. _¿Está todo bien?_ she asks.

He looks up, and his face softens. _Oh,_ he says.

_¿Oh?_

In answer, he turns his phone toward her. The first thing she sees is his name, and it takes a moment for her eyes to refocus to read the rest of the headline. SPOTTED KISSING MYSTERY GIRL AT NEW YEAR’S PARTY.

The article is short, heavy on speculation on _his new fling._ There’s an Instagram photo, posted by someone she doesn’t know, of their kiss. At least her face is hidden. For some reason, the worst part is the phrasing: _his new fling._ She reads the line aloud, and he makes a low sound in the back of his throat.

 _No soy tuya,_ she says.

She doesn’t even realize she’s quoted the song until he finishes the line. _Ni de nadie._

_¿Qué vamos a hacer?_

_No sé._

She hands the phone back and thinks for a moment. The rumor mill is nothing if not efficient, and it won’t be long before the entire Internet is talking about the photo. What if _he_ sees? What if he recognizes her? She has no idea where he is; he could be --

He speaks before she can finish the thought. _Lo siento,_ he says. _Todo es mi culpa._ But he has an idea.

_Dímelo._

_Wait,_ he says, _but first._

_¿Qué?_

_No somos… Fue solo un beso, ¿verdad?_

The way he asks makes her think he has an answer in mind already, but his expression is unreadable. She pauses, unsure of the right answer. The fractions of seconds that pass between his question and her response feel like eternities.

 _Verdad. Fue solo un beso._ Her chest tightens as she says it. _Por suerte._

He snorts. It hasn’t brought them luck so far. He tells her his idea. They compose the tweets together.

 _Ok,_ he types. _Estoy buscando novia para el año nuevo. Enviame tu resume al DM._ He opens his DMs for two minutes, then closes them. In those two minutes, a thousand messages flood in.

Her heart feels like it’s in a vice. To her relief, he doesn’t read any of the messages.

He does this twice more, opening his DMs for a few minutes at a time and letting the messages come.

At the end, after an hour has passed, he tweets again. Something about how all the women in his DMs are beautiful, the men are great, but he’s malo tomando decisiones. _Que mejor me quedo soltero este año,_ he writes.

 _Necesito un bebido,_ he says aloud. Somehow, she manages to laugh.


	9. Early January

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which he dreams.

Three days later, the photos from the Las Vegas shoot are released. He texts her the link, and when she opens it, she’s glad she’s alone. The article is less than mediocre, but the photos are amazing. She’s not sure which are worse for her fragile heart -- the artsy wedding chapel portraits or the sexy black-and-white semi-nudes.

When she reaches the shots with la modelo que eligieron pa él, she has to close her eyes for a moment. She’s seen photos of him with models before, of course, and he always looks at them the way he does in these pictures, but she knows that he slept with this one. The heavy pause on the phone, the smile on her face in the photos, lo que pasa en Las Vegas se queda en Las Vegas -- she knows.

_Fue solo un beso,_ she reminds herself. Pero todavía duele to imagine him with another woman.

Steeling herself, she continues reading. The Q&A section is pretty basic, covering basic facts that hundreds of other interviews have already covered, but then… then they ask about his dream girl, and she sucks in a sharp breath.

_My dream girl isn’t a dream,_ he’d said, and the interviewer takes special care to note his slight smile and the glint in his eye. _She’s real, and I spoke to her last night._

That’s all it says.

_Last night._ He’d called her on the second night, but he’d almost certainly been with the model on the first. When was the interview?

She closes the article without finishing it and texts him back. _Cuéntame más sobre esta chica soñada._

It takes him a long time to respond; her phone shows him typing, then stopping, then typing, then stopping. When her phone finally buzzes, it startles her. _Es independiente, ingeniosa, feroz, y hermosa. Trabaja magia con sus manos. Solo he estado con ella una vez, pero hablamos todos los días._

She has no idea what to say. A lump forms in her throat. She can’t tell whether the message says what she think it says; it’s vague enough that she doesn’t want to say something wrong and ruin everything. While she’s thinking, another text comes through.

_No sé si estoy enamorada de ella, pero sé que la amo. No sé lo que hice antes de conocerle. Es la estrella de mi vida._

When her hands stop shaking for long enough for her to reply, she says, _¿Qué pasa si la chica de tus sueños no está lista pa estar contigo?_

This time, his answer is immediate. _Por eso es que solo es un sueño._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all already know [what photos](https://galoremag.com/bad-bunny-rapper-raggaeton-puerto-rico/)
> 
> also: i posted this the night before the [si estuviésemos juntos](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EB7G3fUUaeA) video came out, and now i think i'm maybe a little bit psychic?


	10. Mid-January

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which they go out.

She’s barely closed the door behind her when the piano music stops and he pops out from the hallway. _¿Qué haces esta noche?_ he asks.

_Hola, me alegro de verte también. El trabajo estuvo bien, gracias por preguntar,_ she replies sarcastically. He rolls his eyes, and she laughs. _No tengo planes. ¿Qué está pasado?_

_Tenemos un boleto extra pa un concierto esta noche. ¿Quieres venir?_

_¿Tenemos? ¿Con quién?_

When he says his friend’s name, it takes a moment for her to register that he’s talking about the famous friend from his album-release party. She’s met him a few times and he seems like a nice person, fun and funny, but a jolt of panic shoots through her when she thinks of the last time she saw him. _No tienes que venir,_ he says, registering her hesitation.

_No, no. Solo necesito pensar por un segundo._

She wants to say yes, but she can’t stop herself from formulating a mental list of reasons to say no. She wishes she could write out the list; the voices arguing in her head are nearly overwhelming. _Calmate,_ she tells herself. _Organize._

  * Her most recent memory of this friend is bad, tense, stressful. She still sees that night in her head when she hears his music. How would a concert be -- loud and dark, like the party, close to him, close to them both, for hours?
    * But if things go well, it will be a new memory. A better memory. Another brick in the wall between her and the past.
  * Barely a day has passed since their conversation about la chica soñada. They haven’t been avoiding each other, exactly, since she was at work all day, but they haven’t talked. What if it comes up again?
    * It won’t, not with his friend there. He knows better than that.
      * What if saying yes to this makes him think she’s ready?
        * It won’t. He knows better than that, too.
          * What if they’re seen together?
            * They’ll be careful, and it will be dark. He knows.
  * He, the other he, hated when she socialized with men, even his closest friends. What if this is a test? Is she supposed to say no? Does she even want to intrude on his night out with his friend? What if she says yes, and then --
    * But the look on his face, anxiously awaiting her answer, dark eyes hopeful, tells her otherwise. It’s not a test. And despite all her what-ifs, she wants to go.



* * *

His friend _is_ fun, more fun than she’d remembered, and he seems so genuinely happy for her to be joining them that her worries -- well, they don’t evaporate, but they fade. She can’t help but to smile back when he smiles at her.

In the car on the way to the show, she laughs along as the two men tease each other and try to sing each other’s songs, though she hides her face when the Instagram stories start. She still doesn’t know who they’re going to see perform, but it doesn’t matter; she needs this night out more than she’d thought.

All three of them dance together without abandon, hardly caring who sees or how silly they look. She even lets his friend spin her around a few times. The tiny voice in the back of her head that associates men’s hands with bruises and scars is drowned in music and alcohol. Her body feels light, her head pleasantly dizzy. And when he leans in close to tell her that he’s stepping out for a moment, and will she be okay alone with his friend, she lets him touch her waist, and her lips brush his ear when she says, _estoy bien._

As soon as he leaves, though, she’s self-conscious. She hadn’t realized how aware of his presence she’d been. She turns back to his friend, who offers his hand to dance, and her self-consciousness dissipates. When he smiles, she can’t help but to smile back.

_Le gustas mucho, ya sabes,_ he says.

Her smile drops. _¿Quién?_ she asks, though she already knows.

_Ya sabes,_ he repeats.

_¿Cómo lo sabes?_

He laughs. _Él habla de ti todo el tiempo. Estrella esta, Estrella esa. Ni siquiera sabía tu nombre real hasta hoy. Ha estado hablando de ti durante…_ He pauses to think. _...like tres meses._

_¿Tres meses? Jesus Christ._

_Como dije. Le gustas mucho._ He spins her again, and when they’re face-to-face again, he asks in English, _Have we met before?_

_He doesn’t remember,_ she thinks. Or maybe he’s drunk -- she knows she is. She’s not sure how to answer; she doesn’t want to think about the last time they met, and the only times they would’ve seen each other before then would have been in the studio. She opens her mouth to speak.

_Los dejo solos durante cinco minutos,_ he says, laughing, coming up behind them.

_Lo siento, hermano. No estoy tratando de robar a tu chica._ His friend releases her and holds his hands up in a gesture of mock-surrender.

She takes a step back. _No soy suya,_ she replies automatically.

_Ni de nadie,_ he confirms. _Pero te ves un po’ enfermo. ¿Dijo algo?_

_No, no. Una bebida demasiado, tal vez._ He looks at her with suspicion, but she turns away. _Oh, amo esta canción._

She’s never heard the song before in her life, but the comment distracts him enough that his concern vanishes. It’s a slower song, and with a glance at his friend, he offers her his hand. She takes it cautiously; his friend’s comments sobered her a little, and she’s remembering New Year’s again. As they dance, the room fades -- his friend, the band on the stage, everything -- and she has just one thought:

_Quiero besarte otra vez._

He freezes, and she realizes she’s said it out loud. She touches her lips, traitor mouth, and wills the words back in.

_¿Qué dijiste?_

_Nada._

_Si quieres besarme, puedes. Lo quiero también. Y si estás preocupa’o por él -- no va a decir nada. Yo confío en él._

She swallows the lump in her throat. She does want it, badly. But it’s wrong. It’s still too soon. There are too many people around, and she still --

_Sí. Lo quiero,_ she says before she can stop herself, and then her lips are on his, and he’s pulling her closer, and she’s not pulling away. He’s warm and solid, stronger than he looks. When he lets out a low hum, she echoes it unconsciously. His hands don’t wander, though she half-wants them to; he holds her gently, sighing and glowing in every place their their bodies touch.

When they part, he touches her cheek. _¿Estoy soñando?_

She shakes her head.

_¡Finalmente! ¡Dios!_ his friend says, slightly louder than intended. He blushes when they turn to look at him. _Lo siento._

_Pensé que habías dicho que no diría nada._

* * *

They don’t mention the kiss again until the next morning. Again she wakes to find him already in the kitchen, waiting for her. _Todavía no estoy lista,_ she says without preamble. She hopes he’ll know what she means.

He does. _Lo entiendo. Te espero._

She sighs. That was easier than she --

_Pero._

_¿Pero?_

_Pero… no puedo continuar así. No podemos besar en medio de la noche y luego fingir que nunca sucedió. Me gustas, y quiero estar contigo, y quiero que te quedes aquí. Entiendo porque no estás lista, pero…_ He sighs and closes his eyes.

_Lo --_

_Por favor déjame terminar._ When he looks at her, she could swear there are tears in his eyes. _Te espero, pero prefiero esperar hasta estás lista. Totalmente lista. O al menos lista pa estar conmigo sin disculpa. No estoy preocupa’o por durmiendo juntos y todo eso. Quiero estar contigo -- sostener tu mano en la calle y besarte durante el día. ¿Ves lo que estoy diciendo?_

_Sí. Lo veo._ She takes a deep breath. There’s a lot she wants to say, but none of it feels right. She settles on: _Me gustas también. Te lo diré cuando esté listo._

_Gracias._

_¿Y a dónde vamos desde aquí?_

_¿Qué día es?_

_Sábado._

_¿Lo habitual?_ He shrugs.

She laughs. _Sí. Lo habitual._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> recommended viewing, for both context and mental health: [jb & bb](https://twitter.com/todayslatinhits/status/1083529368994004992)


	11. February

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which he calls.

_He called again._

_¿Qué?_ He looks up sharply, but she doesn’t meet his eye. _No respondiste, ¿verdad?_

_No, no. Never. Pero…_ She bites her lip. The phone in her hand feels like some kind of alien weapon, one that she doesn’t entirely know how to use but that could implode her whole fragile life if she let it. If he held out his hand right now, she’d gladly give it up.

He doesn’t, though he half-wants to. The way she’s looking at it makes him nervous. _¿Pero?_

_No lo sé. No puedo… I can’t put it into words. Escuché el mensaje._

_Why?_

She shrugs. _I was curious. I’m not… I don’t…_ She pauses to collect her thoughts. She can feel him looking at her still. The music, always playing low in the background in his house, calms her. She takes a deep breath and tries again: _It doesn’t matter what he says. I never want to see him again._

She hopes she sounds more confident than she feels. The more time that passes, the more the ring of bruises on her arm fades, the more her body heals, the less she remembers of the bad times. The bad times seem so much smaller now, from a distance.

Little things remind her of him. A name brings back a flicker of the movie they watched on their first date, where they laughed in the back row of an empty theatre. A few notes of a song, and she’s at the concert where he kissed her for the first time. A brilliant royal-blue shirt on a tourist is her suitcase, carrying all her hopes for this big move to the little island, his brilliant smile as he told her the news.

She misses his touch. Touch, at all. Some days, she thinks she would bear his anger for another year if it meant that she could be kissed one more time without second-guessing it.

But then, a friend texts her about something she missed in the two years he kept her cut off from the world. Or she hears a car door slam, and it sounds like the _crack_ of the wall. Or the wind carries a grain of sand, brushing the almost-scar on her cheek just wrong.

What she doesn’t miss: his hands, too tight around her forearm; his lips, squeezing into a tight line; his body, on top of hers no matter how many times she said no.

_I never want to see him again,_ she repeats.

_You don’t have to._


	12. Late February

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which she has a choice.

_Salgo de tour en dos semanas._

_Suenas nervioso._

_No quiero dejarte de nuevo._

_Es sólo por un par de meses. No te preocupes por mi._

_Puedo cancelar._

_Cancel?!_

_Estamos dos semanas fuera. Todavía hay tiempo. Puedo cubrir el costo._

_Absolutely not. No cancelarás tu tour -- ni mucho menos la tour de tu debut album -- gracias a mí. Puedo hacerme cargo de mí misma._

_No eres mia._

_Ni de nadie._

Pause.

_Ven conmigo._

In a lighter moment, she would respond with song, _y ahora se va,_ but he’s serious. Her first instinct is to say no; this is crazy. She’d have to quit her job. And what would she do on tour? Hover around him backstage, in hotel rooms, at parties?

As if reading her mind again, he says, _Sigo necesitando un monitor engineer._

_What?!_

Monitor engineer would be a huge promotion from studio tech, and he knows it. She’s done it before, for small bands in small venues, but never for a crowd thousands-strong as part of a stadium tour. He shrugs. _Sé que podrías hacerlo. Confío en ti._

He uses the magic word, and she doesn’t say no. Instead she says, unsure of the grammar but not caring, _Pensarélo._


	13. Early March

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which she decides.

Three days later, she comes home -- comes _back,_ not home -- from a long day at the studio and collapses onto the couch beside him. This isn’t unusual, but she’s landed a little closer than she has before, and their legs are inches apart. She feels his breath catch beside her.

_Iré contigo,_ she says.

He straightens up and turns to her. _¿Yeah?_

_Yeah._ There’s more she wants to say, but the words won’t come. She doesn’t meet his eye. Instead, she does something she’s never done. She shifts over and rests her head on his shoulder. _¿Esta bien?_ she asks.

It takes him a beat to respond, and for a terrifying second she thinks he’s going to say no. They haven’t so much as touched when at home before -- New Year’s excluded, of course -- and she worries she’s misread his glances, the tiny twitches of his hand toward hers that never end in contact.

He doesn’t say no. He says _sí,_ y _sí_ otra vez.

He sighs and lets his cheek rest on the crown of her head. He offers his hand, palm-up, and she twines her fingers in his. She closes her eyes for a moment, remembering the last time she was touched like this, but there’s no fear here. His smoke-and-saltwater scent envelops her.

Maybe she is home.

* * *

Once they start touching, they can’t stop. It’s never more intimate than the night she said she’d go with him, but the careful distance they’d maintained all these months shatters. Shoulders brush shoulders. Hands rest on hips. Fingers explore hair. They still talk as easily as ever. They just do it with her legs thrown over his, or his head on her lap, instead of three feet apart on the couch.

They don’t kiss again -- not like before, at least. Lips brush knuckles and hairlines and cheeks, but they don’t kiss again properly.

In public, they’re careful not to be seen together. They’re not ready for that; they’ve never said in words exactly what their relationship is, and they don’t want someone else to use the words first. They’re even careful around their friends, still unsure who photographed them at the party.

They sleep separately, but knowing that he’s just on the other side of the wall comforts her. She still has nightmares.

As far as she knows, he -- the other he -- has no idea where she is. She hasn’t heard from or of him, and the silence is unnerving. She googles his name every now and then, but comes up empty. She never searches when he, the he with her now, is around, even though she’s pretty sure he’ll understand.


	14. Mid-March I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which there is a fight.

A week after she agrees to go with him on tour, four days before the tour starts, right in the middle of their intensive prep and rehearsal, they get a break: his friends throw him a weekend-long birthday party. They’ve rented out one of the big houses on the beach, one of las casas de lo’ rico’ that they used to admire as children.

His eyes fill with tears when he sees it.

In the car, she squeezes his hand once, then releases it, preparing to go inside. _Espera,_ he says. She turns back to him. _Tal vez… Tal vez podamos decirles._

_¿Diles qué?_

_Diles… Cuéntales sobre nosotros. Sobre esto._ He takes her hand again and holds it up between them. _Confío en ellos,_ he says, y ella confía en él.

 _Okay,_ she says. _Pero…_

_¿Pero?_

_Pero, ¿que vamos a decir? No soy tu novia, pero no no soy tu novia, ¿yeah?_

He laughs. He hadn’t thought that far ahead, he says. _Tal vez podamos simplemente…_ He holds up their linked hands again and shrugs.

 _Okay,_ she says again.

So they walk into the house, la casa de lo’ rico’, with her hand in his arm. His friends greet him with complex handshakes, her with hugs and kisses on the cheek. She’d met most of them at New Year’s and at other gatherings since then, but they still seem impressed when she remembers their names.

It’s early afternoon, but the drinking has already begun -- _y el fumar está afuera,_ one of his friends says -- and the music beats through her chest. It’s chill, and she likes it. She doesn’t even mind that the conversation is centered mostly on people she’s never met. When talk turns to embarrassing stories from their guest of honor’s past, she laughs along with them.

He keeps his arm around her shoulder, but no one comments on it.

The party stays chill, at least, until the sun goes down. As darkness falls, the music volume rises, and more people start trickling in. At first, he knows everyone; he welcomes them with less-complex handshakes and hugs, and introduces her and the rest of his friends. Later, though, it seems that many of the guests are just there for the party.

He doesn’t mind. He loves this -- the noise, the laughter, the crowd -- and she loves that he loves it. As long as she’s beside him, she loves it too.

Until.

It’s late, full dark, and the house is full. People are spilling out toward the pool in the back and the beach in the front, and everyone is dancing. Guests come and go, mostly unacknowledged. He’s even convinced her to dance, y están perreando with a group of his close friends and his brothers.

But then, something shifts.

The front door opens and closes for the thousandth time, and she feels a tightening in her chest, an ache in her bones like an old woman predicting a storm. She stops, and he stops with her.

_¿Estás bien?_

She shakes her head. He leads her away to a quiet corner to breathe, sending his youngest brother to find her some water. Her eyes follow his brother as he cuts a path through the crowd, and then she sees him. Him. The other him.

He’s with a woman who seems to know people already there; she’s kissing friends on both cheeks. His hand rests on the small of her back in a gesture she recognizes.

He, this he, sees him too. His other brother is nearby, and he waves him over. The two men confer for a moment, and he points out the problem. His brother nods, gathers two more friends, and approaches the intruder.

She can’t hear them over the sound of the party, but she knows what’s happening. They’re telling him to leave. He’s asking why. They’re not explaining, and he’s not leaving.

Then, he must feel her stare, because he turns. He sees her. Understanding dawns. She shakes her head, a tiny movement, and he takes a step forward. A friend puts a hand out to stop him, but he brushes it aside. He takes another step.

She’s reminded of the last party -- their faces, the tension, the _music,_ Dios, the music that made everything so much worse -- and her teeth clench. But this time is different. There’s no arm around her waist. There’s a hand in hers, a hand that has never been raised against her, and now he’s standing in front of her, protecting her. When was the last time someone protected her?

And then they’re talking. And then they’re shouting. She can’t understand what either of them are saying, not because of the noise or the language or the music, but because of the static between her ears. This was supposed to be a break, and now there’s going to be violence, and it’s her fault.

 _No,_ she thinks, and then she’s saying it out loud, _¡No!_

One of them stops. The other throws a punch.

* * *

The party doesn’t last long after that.

* * *

The next morning, she wakes early. His youngest brother is up, too; too young to legally drink, he’d only had a single beer, so he’s the only one not hungover. An idea had hit her that morning, and he agrees to drive her into town for what would be, all things considered, not a terrible birthday gift.

When they return, the others are just waking up. He’s standing at the kitchen counter, forcing down a lukewarm plate of bacon and eggs. Despite icing it the night before, his eye is already starting to blacken and swell. Still, when he sees her, he lights up.

 _Te quedaste,_ he says.

She lets out a surprised laugh. It’s the last thing she expected him to say. _Por supuesto me quedé,_ she says. Then she adds, hesitantly, _Feliz cumpleaños._

 _He tenido peores._ He shrugs.

_Te traje algo._

They go up to his bedroom, where she sits him down on the edge of the bed. His eyes are -- his eye is, rather -- bright. _Cierra tus ojos,_ she orders. He obeys. She lays out her purchases on the bed beside him. He’s tense; she can tell he’s resisting the urge not to look.

He flinches at her first light touch on his cheek, but she says _confía en mi_ and he does.

Five minutes later, she’s done. _Okay,_ she says, _puedes abrir tus ojos._

 _Wow,_ he breathes, admiring her work in the little hand mirror.

 _No es perfecto,_ she confesses. It’s not; on close inspection, it’s clear that the layers of makeup are hiding something. From a reasonable distance, though, his black eye looks almost normal.

Last night, he’d insisted that he _hoped_ his eye would bruise -- he’d said something about a badge of honor, a symbol of pride protecting her, a war wound, and other tipsy nonsense -- but in the light of day, he’s glad he can hide it before going on tour.

 _Como aprendiste…_ he starts to ask, but the look on her face answers the question. _Oh._

_Mi hermana siempre fue la reina del maquillaje. Pero puedo hacer esto._

He’s still sitting on the bed, she standing in front of him. He sets the mirror aside and rests his hands on her hips. He’s looking up at her with such tenderness that she can nearly feel her heart melting. _Este,_ he says, indicating his eye, _es el último moretón que tendrás que cubrir. Te prometo._

She nods. _Deberíamos volver a bajar,_ she says.

* * *

The rest of the weekend is surprisingly calm. Nothing more is said of the fight from the night before. The last of the strangers from the previous night are ushered out early, and the small group of friends make themselves comfortable. They relax in the sun, in the pool, around the lavish house. His friends become her friends. It’s nice.

* * *

 _De vuelta a la realidad,_ he says, and she almost laughs. She’s just stepped out of a car that costs more than most houses, into the house of one of this country’s most famous people, and said famous person looks at her as if she’s the only woman in the world. If this is reality, she’ll gladly stay here forever.

But, she reminds herself, some things are about to change. In just a few days, they and twenty others will be on their way to spend two months in the mainland U.S., where she’ll be almost-solely responsible for making him sound perfect for thousands of people each night. Sound and _look_ good, if that eye doesn’t heal soon.

No pressure.


	15. Mid-March II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which they each say two words.

It isn’t until the first show goes off without a hitch that she feels like she’s made the right decision. When they’re reunited backstage, both high on adrenaline and applause, he takes her hand and says, _Hiciste un gran trabajo._ And then, seemingly unable to stop the words from falling out of his mouth, he says, _te amo._

She freezes.

_Espera. No. No sé por qué dije eso. Me encanta trabajar conti--_

_Para._

He does. Before she can say anything else, though, his manager has approaches, pulling them apart and speaking to him rapidly, giving them both directions. They need to leave early the next morning if they want to make his interview on time; the manager whisks him away to sign autographs for VIP ticket-holders, leaving her to help pack up the equipment.

And leaving her to think.

* * *

They don’t see each other again that night. The next day, he’s surrounded by people every minute. He catches her eye only once, but he looks away quickly.

In fact, the next time they’re able to talk is during the soundcheck two days later, and the conversation is one-sided. She’s professional, adjusting sound and asking questions into his earpiece, and he’s the same, flashing her a thumbs-up or thumbs-down.

With this much distance between them, her voice in his ear but his filling the whole stadium, she can breathe without feeling his arms around her. He’s a different person on stage, even during the soundcheck.

_Que dejen de tirarte, he sings, que a ti nadie va a --_

She says his name, half-hoping he won’t hear her, but he stops on the last word. The others on the stage exchange confused looks, but he’s focused on her. _Creo que te amo también,_ she says.

He smiles, beams, momentarily losing the practiced hardness that he wears like armor on stage. When he sings the next line, it sounds different in her ears.

_Dile que tú eres mia, mia…_


	16. Mid-March III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which they go on a date.

They’re in Miami, one of his favorite cities, and he’d insisted on a couple of free nights before the next show on the other side of the country. Still, she dodges him backstage, making sure her hands are full of heavy equipment whenever he comes near. She doesn’t know why she’s doing it except that she’s afraid -- not of him, but of her feelings for him, and his for her. It’s been so long since she’s had such uncomplicated feelings that her brain is twisting them into complex shapes on its own.

But when she sees him, the knots untangle. They’re not alone, so she doesn’t let him touch her, but she smiles. _Otra noche en Miami,_ she says.

_Otra noche con ti,_ he smiles back.

_¿Vas a salir con tus amigos?_

_Si digo no, ¿puedo llevarte a cenar en cambio?_

She hesitates. The hard part should be over, now that she’s told him how she feels, but she’s still nervous about going public. She wants to be with him, but…

_Oh,_ he says, sensing her hesitation as always. They don’t have to go out, he says, they can order in. He knows this amazing place that delivers. _Podemos volver a mi hotel, y --_

Her surprise must show on her face, because he cuts off mid-sentence. She recovers quickly and says, _Si. Si, podemos volver al hotel. Pero no me siento listo pa…_

_No no no. Lo entiendo._ He holds up his hands. _Estás a cargo._

_Confío en ti._

* * *

His room is, unsurprisingly, nicer than hers.

She’d gone back to her own first to change, where her roommate had asked, wide-eyed, _¿ tú tienes una cita?_ She’d scoffed and tossed her bag onto her bed, but inside, the butterflies in her stomach fluttered.

Now she stands in front of his door, wearing a knee-length floral sundress as if they were really going out on a date. It’s the nicest thing she brought. She knocks gently, again half-hoping he won’t hear her.

But when he opens the door and greets her by name, she’s glad she came.

She follows him into the hotel room, which is nearly as big as the apartment she had in her hometown. _Wow,_ she says.

He rolls his eyes. _Es demasia’o,_ he says. _Siempre demasia’o._

_Creo que es genial,_ she laughs. He takes her hand and spins her around once, then again -- there’s plenty of space for it. Why don’t they dance at home?

_Because things are different now,_ she reminds herself. They’re… well, she’s not sure what they are, exactly, but she knows that if they were to kiss now, it wouldn’t be solo un beso. They’ve said words that can’t be unsaid, not that she wanted them to be. She realizes she’s staring at him, and she laughs.

_What?_ he asks in English.

_No puedo creer que te dije te amo,_ she says. Confusion and pain flash across his face, and she covers her mouth. _Dios mio. No puedo creer que te dije te amo como eso,_ she clarifies. 

He relaxes and pulls her close. He’s just the right height so she has to tip her head back a little but not too far to look into his eyes. 

_Me alegra solo que lo hayas dicho,_ he says. _Esperé todo lo que pude pa decirlo. Te he ama’o desde que nos conocimos._

She wants to kiss him again, and she tells him so. His lips are just as soft and warm as she remembered them from -- could it have only been three months ago? It feels like an eternity since their last kiss. This time, there’s no one there to see them. This time, when he takes a half-step toward her so their bodies can touch, she wraps herself in him and trusts that she’s safe.

_The sea will never taste the same again,_ she thinks.

Slowly, reluctantly, after a long time, they break apart. They stand for a moment, breathing together. She touches his cheek. She wants to tell him she loves him again, but it’s different face-to-face, right after a kiss.

Instead, she touches her lips to his one more time, lightly, briefly, barely a kiss, and says, _Pensé que estaba aquí para cenar._

She loves -- she lets herself think the word, at least -- his laugh. The room has a table and chairs, and they settle in and place their order from his phone. While they wait, they talk. About the show, the city, the world, it doesn’t matter. They talk easily, as easily as they always have.

They hardly know how much time has passed until they hear a knock at the door.

She insists on answering it. The delivery driver glances from the receipt to her face, then back. They read his name with a question mark at the end, as if they’re worried they have the wrong room. _Sí,_ she says confidently, and _¡gracias!_

When she closes the door, he’s buried his head in his hands, shoulders shaking with laughter. He calls her by his own name, and she sticks her tongue out at him. _Recuerda quien tiene la comida,_ she says.

* * *

He was right; the food is amazing. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was, though it’s approaching two in the morning and she hadn’t eaten since noon. She can’t imagine how he must have felt -- he was the one jumping around on stage for three hours. She tries to eat slowly, to savor it, but she’s starving.

When they’ve finished, they sit in silence for a moment. _Probablemente debería ir,_ she says. _Gracias por la cena._

_¿Te quedarás por favor?_ He looks so tired all of a sudden. He takes her hand and rubs a small circle in her palm. _Esta habitación. Esta cama. Son demasia’o pa solo yo._

* * *

Her body says yes, yes, yes, but her mouth says _no._ It’s almost a reflex, the _no,_ but it comes out anyway, a whisper but loud enough.

And as soon as the _no_ appears between them, he stops.

Her breath catches. She’s so used to ineffectual _no_ s, _no_ s that may as well be _sí_ s or not there at all, that she’s shocked for a moment when he stops. His lips move away from her neck, his hands come out from under her dress. His eyes are large, worried, and she can’t help it -- she starts to cry.

_Lo siento,_ she says. _No sé por qué estoy llorando._

He sits up. _No, no. Dios mio, no. Lo siento. Lo entiendo._

She pulls him back down beside her, but instead of kissing him again, she lays her head on his chest. He strokes her hair, and she doesn’t flinch away. The low rumble as he hums a song she almost recognizes calms her, like a cat’s purring. She sighs.

_Esperaría por siempre por ti,_ he says, and she believes him.


	17. Early April I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which they come out.

The night before his show in her hometown, they’re sitting together on the balcony of yet another hotel room, his head on her shoulder. She suspects he’s fallen asleep, but she whispers his name anyway.

_¿Hm?_

Not asleep, then. _He estado pensando._

He lifts his head. _¿Deberia estar preocupa’o?_

_No, no. Pienso que… Pienso que deberíamos confirmar los rumores._

He’s silent for a long moment.

They’d gone out together in other cities, and though it’s harder every day to keep their distance, they’re still careful. But despite their best efforts, relationship rumors have been circulating. There are no clear photos, luckily, but she’s seen the New Year’s photo in at least ten posts speculating on the identity of _his mystery girl._

One piece of evidence cited in every article: He looks happier than he ever has. That, at least, is true.

When his silence lasts a half-beat too long, she speaks again. _No tenemos que hacerlo._

_No, deberíamos. Pero ¿estás segura que estás lista?_

She’s ready. She’s been thinking about this for awhile now, and she even has an idea of how to do it.

_Dímelo._

* * *

The next morning, they wake early. Before they’ve even eaten breakfast, they sneak out of the hotel. She leads the way; she’s only told him that they’re going to find _a statue,_ but didn’t elaborate further.

It’s a weekday morning in a city not known for its foot traffic. Of course, just when they’ve decided to renounce their anonymity, they have the sidewalk to themselves. It doesn’t matter, though, because they don’t have far to go.

He nearly doubles over with laughter when he sees it. Ahead of them, nestled in the lush garden of a hotel fancier than theirs, thirty feet tall, is the symbol of his album: _un ojo gigante._ When he regains his composure, he says, _Es perfecto._

She lets him pick his favorite of the many selfies they take with the eye. As soon as she’d told him her plan -- to _go public_ via Instagram in front of this too-perfect landmark -- he’d been thinking of a caption. Just as she kept their destination from him, he keeps his words secret from her.

It’s weird to refresh his feed like this when he’s standing just feet from her, but she’s doing it anyway. Just as she’s about to ask whether he really posted it, it appears. It has already been liked almost two hundred times, and comments are rolling in.

He chose a photo she hadn’t even known he’d taken. Her eyes are closed, head tilted back in laughter, while he kisses her on the cheek. It’s not a flattering angle for either of them, but the unadulterated joy on both of their faces makes them glow. She can feel tears building before she even reaches the caption.

_Los últimos meses han sido los más extraños de mi extraña vida, pero siempre confío en que estés allí, y todo está bien. Yo soy solo de ti, estrella. Nunca dejemos de gritarle al océano._

When she looks back up at him, his eyes are shining. She doesn’t even hesitate before throwing her arms around him and letting him wrap her in an embrace. _Te amo,_ she whispers, and he kisses her again. Somehow, so many miles from their océano, he still drowns her in saltwater.

The next words out of his mouth surprise her, though. _Don’t read the comments._

Of course, she hadn’t been planning to. But as soon as she says it, she knows she has to. She pulls away from him.

 _No,_ he says, _lo digo en serio,_ and he grabs her wrist.

His grip is light and she pulls out of it easily, but her vision still blurs as she jerks away. Traitor body. They apologize simultaneously as they both realize what happened, she with an _oh, no_ and he with a _Dios mio._

She kisses him again, gently, and it calms her pounding heart. With a smile that’s only a little forced, she says, _Aunque todavía los voy a leer._ He nods and steps back.

At first, she can’t tell why he’d tried to stop her. The first few comments -- many from his friends, other musicians, and Instagram influencers -- are supportive. _You look so happy. She’s beautiful. Wish I had a love like that._

But as she scrolls, she starts to understand. Most fans are happy, too, but many are not. She’s been called terrible names before, but never by total strangers. Some of their threats rival the ones she fielded from the-other-him at the height of his rages. Of the thousands of comments, hundreds are unspeakably awful.

Her hand flies up to her mouth, but the sound she makes is more of a laugh than a sob. _¿Qué es tan gracioso?_ he asks.

The question turns her single chuckle into a full-on laugh. He smiles in spite of himself. Whenever she opens her mouth to answer his question, more giggles come out. Finally, she manages to say, _Simplemente no entiendo por qué les importa tanto._

* * *

The show in her city is weird. She’s not sure how else to describe it. Some of the more dedicated fans sitting near her booth seem to recognize her from his post; though she keeps her head down as much as she can, she’s pretty sure they’ve snapped more than a few pictures of her. He doesn’t say anything on stage, gracias a dios, but his love songs -- and his breakup songs, which are far more frequent -- sound different.

After the show, he takes her hand, and she lets him. As tired as he is, he still wants to go out. She texts a friend, and two minutes later, they’re in a car headed downtown.

_¿A dónde vamos?_

_Verás. Mis amigos y yo solíamos pasar el rato en este barrio todo el tiempo. Este es mi bar favorito._

_Confío en ti._ He pauses, trying to figure out how to phrase his next question. He’s wearing what he calls his _disguise,_ all black everything, instead of his usual eye-catching colors, but she knows he’s still worried about being recognized. Probably more worried than usual, even, since his Instagram post from the morning had been shared on every entertainment-news site imaginable all day.

Still, she laughs. _Estaremos bien. Esta es ... no es tu escena habitual._

If she’s being honest, she’s a little nervous about taking him to this particular neighborhood. Not because it’s dangerous -- the opposite, in fact. This area of town is affectionately known as _the gayborhood_ among locals, and she’s not sure how he’ll react. If she knew any other bars, if her friends gathered in any other place, she’d take him there, but this is all she knows.

She never dared take the-other-him here.

 _Confío en ti,_ he says again. She hopes he means it.

His brow furrows slightly when he sees the rainbow flags lining the street, and she tenses. He doesn’t say anything, though. He studies the people walking by, people of all genders alone and in pairs and in groups, but he stays quiet.

When they reach their destination, she breaks the silence. _Si esto es demasiado raro, podemos ir._

 _No es raro,_ he says softly.

 _Debería decirte una cosa antes de que entremos,_ she says. _Uno de los amigos con los que nos reunimos -- solíamos tener citas. No hay sentimientos malos ni nada._ She takes a deep breath. The next part is the hardest. _Creo que te gustará ella._

 _Ella,_ he echoes.

_Sí._

After a moment that seems to last a year, he nods, but he still doesn’t speak.

 _No sé cómo decirlo en español,_ she says.

 _In English, then,_ he says.

Another deep breath. _I’m bi. Bisexual._

Another pause, longer this time. She thought she knew his face so well, but she can’t read his expression. She braces herself; she hadn’t even bothered coming out to the-other-him, knowing how it would probably have ended for her. What if he --

She’s so lost in the swirl of her own thoughts that she only half-hears him when she responds. The words take a beat to process, but even when they reach her brain, they don’t compute. _¿Qué dijiste?_

 _Me too,_ he says again.

_I…_

She doesn’t know how to respond. She doesn’t have a word for the emotions crashing inside her now. He trusts her with this secret -- and it’s clear it’s a secret, from the tone of his voice and the vaguely-sick look on his face -- and she doesn’t know how to feel.

 _I really want to kiss you right now,_ she says, still in English, unable to parse the Spanish grammar.

_¿De verdad?_

_Claro que sí. Esto no cambia nada. At least, no cambia nada for me. ¿Y pa tí?_

He sighs, a smile threatening to break through. _No. No cambia na’._

_Te amo._

_Te amo._

They enter the bar hand-in-hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one, uh, went differently than i intended it to. but here we are.
> 
> also, [the eye](https://www.atlasobscura.com/places/eye-sculpture) is real.


	18. Early April II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which she does some research.

They stay out entirely too late with her friends. What was supposed to be a couple of drinks turns into an hours-long conversation spanning three bars and countless songs. He likes her friends, even her ex; he’d been nervous, knowing the other ex, but this one is nothing like the other. She seemed to like him, too -- when the DJ started playing one of his songs, she’d insisted on dancing with him and singing along.

Now, though, they’re on the tour bus, behind schedule, hungover, and exhausted. At least they don’t have to be careful anymore. They’re too tired to maintain that careful distance any longer. Once his manager finishes tearing into them for being late, they settle in together for the long ride to the next city.

It’s road-trip quiet, where everyone has their headphones in, where the only sounds are those of the bus. The white noise and gentle music drowns out any conversations.

She wants to ask about what he said last night.

Though they haven’t talked about it any more, she hasn’t stopped thinking about it. It really no cambia nada for her, but she still turns the words over and over in her mind. _Me too._ So simple.

His fans had been speculating for years, but then again, they always did. Their _evidence_ \-- the lighting in a photo, a stylistic choice in a music video -- seemed silly, far-reaching. But maybe…

She pulls out her phone and her headphones, leaning away so her legs are still crossed with his but so he can’t see her screen. She watches the video again with new eyes. She has to stop it before the end, the last few seconds that hurt her though she knows they’re meaningless, but she sees what the fans saw.

He moves in beside her, and she clutches her phone to her chest. She doesn’t want to explain.

_¿Qué estás viendo?_

_Nada._

She silently wills him not to press, and he doesn’t. _Me divertí anoche,_ he says.

_Me too,_ she replies. And then she says, _Sobre lo que dijiste…_

_¿Qué parte?_

_Ya sabes qué parte._

He smiles. _Yeah. Well. Es la verdad. No vas a conocer a un ex-novio ni nada, pero… yeah._

_No voy a verte en un video adulto, ¿verdad?_ She nudges him, and his laugh is half-cringe as he remembers the story from months ago.

_No, Dios mio, no._ And then, suddenly, he’s serious, taking her hand and looking into her eyes. _¿Pero incluso importa quién me gusta si solo te quiero?_

She thinks for a moment. It’s hard to focus with his gaze on her, his hands on her. She kisses him on the cheek and says, _Sí. Pa ti sí. Pero pa el resto del mundo, no._


	19. Late April

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which they go home.

The rest of the tour passes in a blur, and before either of them know it, they’re home. Their home. The colors and music and scent of the island fill her with an emotion she can’t name. She watches the city fly by out the car window.

Just before they enter the house, he catches her arm. _¿Qué?_ she asks.

_¿Son las cosas diferentes ahora?_ he asks back.

_¿Qué quieres decir?_

_No sé a qué quiero decir. ¿Te vas a quedar?_

She starts to respond, but stops. She hasn’t thought about it in so long. It seemed silly to look for an apartment once the tour was confirmed, and even sillier when she knew she was going with him. She hadn’t meant to stay anywhere near this long. And now, yes, things are different.

_Sí,_ she says, to both questions. She pauses. _Si quieres que me queda._

_Yo lo quiero._

She kisses him, right there on the front porch, not caring if the driver is still there. The kiss is sweeter than she wants -- she wants heat, passion. She pulls back.

_Vayamos adentro,_ she says.

He closes and locks the door behind them. She can’t read the look in his eye. She grabs his shirt with both hands and kisses him again, and this time, it comes out right. Fire and water. Smoke.

His hands wander the way she’d half-hoped they would all those months ago. There’s no half- anything now. She’s let them wander plenty before, in so many hotel rooms in so many cities, but she wants more now. She’s ready.

_¿Estás segura?_ he asks.

_Totalmente._

She leads him back to his bedroom. Their bedroom, if that’s what he wants. It’s -- finally -- what she wants. She feels safer than she has in years, freer than she has in her life. She doesn’t say no. She says _sí,_ y _sí_ otra vez.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can't believe it's over!
> 
> well, not entirely over; i'm working on a prequel, and there are several sequels in the works that i'm co-writing with my wonderful fanfic mentor, [yehwellwhatever](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yehwellwhatever/works). they're weird crossovers and there's a lot of awkwardness and they're a lot more fun than this one. (and the characters have names.)
> 
> find me on twitter @rjtonamen. i want to know your thoughts.
> 
> <3


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